


texts from last night

by sidnihoudini



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-23
Packaged: 2018-01-02 11:37:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidnihoudini/pseuds/sidnihoudini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two dollar PBRs are Patrick's best friend and worst enemy.</p><p>The early warning signs of him being on just this side of beer-drunk include, but are not limited to: waxing poetic on modern jazz, spilling drinks all over himself and others, arguing with the bartender, and arguing with Pete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. best boyfriend ever

**

_I'm not an extrovert. Except when I'm drinking and then apparently I'm king of town. (@PatrickStump)_

**

Two dollar PBRs are Patrick's best friend and worst enemy.

The early warning signs of him being on just this side of beer-drunk include, but are not limited to: waxing poetic on modern jazz, spilling drinks all over himself and others, arguing with the bartender, and arguing with Pete.

"Hey man, I'm not saying anything," Pete says, trying to placate him as Patrick jerks himself away from Pete's travelling hand with a sour look on his face. "But you definitely kind of have some issues going on with your shirt right now."

Pete's drunk tics are wildly different than Patrick's. He becomes focused on the small details -- wrinkles in fabric, popped buttons, peanut shells stuck in the cuff of whoever's jeans.

"Get your own mannequin," Patrick grumbles, trying to knock Pete's hands away. "I'm not your mannequin."

*

Patrick and Travis get into an argument about Good Will Hunting, so Pete trails along after him when Travis goes outside for a cigarette.

Halfway to the door, Patrick zigs when he should have zagged and almost takes a header to the floor. Travis catches him by the inside of one elbow and cracks up, holding him upright as they continue on their path.

"Looks like you need another drink," Travis says, grinning over his shoulder, as he elbows the door open.

*

Patrick does not, in fact need another drink.

The PBRs had graduated to rum and cokes and then plateaued at shots of tequila, which have arrived at the table twice now, in big tall stacks of shot glasses -- enough for everyone crowded around the two tables.

Long story short, if Patrick was drunk before he's damn near blackout now. Which explains why he's eaten half a bucket of peanuts, and is currently sucking on a slice of lime.

"Check it out!" Someone -- one of Gabe's friends -- yells, jumping up from a table. His hip hits the edge of the table and everyone's glasses shake, Patrick's hand comes forward automatically for sake of preserving his drink.

Pete starts howling with laughter beside him when Gabe's friend snorts a line of salt from the curve of his hand, throws the tequila back, and then squirts the lime in his eye.

"Did you see that? Did you see that?" Pete is saying, stuck in a loop as he grabs one of Patrick's hands and then drops it to clap, yelling congratulations over the sound of Gabe's friend yelling in pain.

Listing a bit to the side, Patrick raises his eyebrows when he realizes his eyes have closed, and feels Pete pick up his hand again.

*

They don't leave until the bar closes at 2, everyone pouring through the door in a haze of salty mouths and hopefully not-lost belongings.

Patrick's definitely staggering. The harder he tries not to, the more he does, his feet tumbling across the sidewalk out of sync with his body. He manages to say goodbye to mostly everyone without incident, the majority of them swaying and as clumsy as he is.

"C'mon," Pete usually loses his ability to talk when he's this drunk, but he manages to steady himself long enough to reach out for Patrick's arm.

They're both way too drunk to walk as a cohesive unit (once when he was 18 and this wasted he almost fell asleep in a field), so Pete calls a cab, and argues with them for a few minutes on the semantics of requesting a car to the corner of State and Haddock as opposed to a specific address.

Patrick stands beside him, rubbing at his face with both hands, until Pete hangs up the phone and starts to lurch away.

*

The cab has agreed to meet them in the parking lot of the closest convenience store, so here they are, hanging out in front of 7-11.

Patrick almost feels 16 again.

He's sobering up a little -- and saying "a little" is still on this side of generous -- as they sit on the curb outside the store, sharing a bottle of water.

"I gotta piss," Pete announces, beginning to stagger up from the curb.

From this perspective, Patrick can see Pete is a bit more out of control than previously anticipated. Getting off of the ground is a production that involves Pete's feet, knees, palms and arms, and Patrick watches cautiously, vision unfocused yet determined.

"Wait," Patrick says, as Pete staggers back a few steps, but his timing is off and Pete goes crashing down ass-first in a parking spot regardless.

Pete seems nothing if not determined, as he lays down flat on his back for a moment, regaining his composure.

"Oh my god, oh my god, Pete," Patrick garbles, trying to stand up. He drops the water bottle and it goes rolling in the other direction.

From his position on the ground, Pete readjusts his legs, denim brushing against the concrete, and stares up at the dark sky.

"I hit my head," He announces, as Patrick finally manages to get up and over to him. He meets Patrick's eye and then adds, "Pretty hard, actually."

Patrick helps him up as best he can, and then follows him to the darkened edges of the parking lot. Pete's still staggering, knees warbly and buckling underneath his weight.

"I totally snuck another two shots with Gabe," He laughs, sounding drunk and impressed with himself as he starts to unzip his jeans. The movement almost sends him off balance again, but Patrick catches him in the knick of time, both arms going around his waist. Pete announces, "I'm gonna pee."

Making a face, Patrick holds his waist from behind, but tries to turn his head as much as possible in the other direction.

"Go for it," He manages, fingers twisted in Pete's shirt as Pete lists forward, pissing all over his own shoe.

*

The next morning Patrick wakes up to an empty bed, and a splitting headache.

"Ugh," He grumbles to nobody in particular, unbuttoning the first two buttons of the shirt he's still wearing.

He reaches for his cellphone, thankfully on the beside table, and isn't surprised when there are three new messages from Pete.

_gms, forgot i had a meeting oops. home around 4. back into bed @ 4:06._

_thanks for holding me so i didn't fall in my pee in that parking lot._

_you're the best boyfriend ever. xx._


	2. hotdogs and seagulls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick's in Detroit promoting the solo CD, living in airplanes, hotel rooms, and valet cars.

***

Patrick's in Detroit promoting the solo CD, living in airplanes, hotel rooms, and valet cars.

It's definitely easier to start out as a moderately well-known solo artist, than an entirely unknown dime a dozen pop-punk band, he thinks, watching the buildings pass by outside his window as they drive through the city. Another day, another radio station, and it makes him a little melancholy, knowing he's done this before. In a different life, it seems like some days.

Frowning at his reflection, Patrick straightens his shirt cuff, and exhales loudly. It almost sounds like a snort.

"What's funny?" Michael, his road manager and might-as-well-be publicist, asks. He doesn't look up from his iPhone.

Patrick looks back at his reflection, says, "Not much, man."

*

He holds off on texting Pete through the morning, cause he's got his own shit to deal with today, a few states and hours away.

Also, Patrick hates feeling like a clingy, homesick girlfriend. They were the ones who always got made fun of on tour first.

Two acoustic sets at a radio station (one live, one for web), a quick alley themed photoshoot, and a half-assed meet and greet later, he's back out the door of the radio station, trailing along behind Michael as Michael tries to navigate the two of them back to the car.

It's totally weird doing this off-label. Pretty much off-label. As off-label as it got before you had to sign your soul over, anyway. Off-label enough for Patrick.

More so, it's totally weird doing this, well. Solo. Patrick wasn't even good at being a front man, this only man thing is taking some getting used to.

He checks his phone again as they cut between a toll booth and a metal gate. There's a voicemail from his mom that's been poorly transcribed by his audio-to-text, but nothing from Pete. Patrick makes a face and lifts his thumb to tap his messages open, when a security guard comes running up behind them, yelling.

"No entry this way! No entry!" He's shouting, angry in the face as he tries to wave Patrick and Michael down.

Michael argues with the guy for a while, Patrick standing off to the side, both hands in his pockets.

*

That night, he goes out for drinks with a friend from highschool who had moved to Lafayette after graduation.

"Other than all the music stuff, everything's going good then, huh?" She asks, stirring her drink thoughtfully. "Pete's still good?"

What she really means, is: no death attempts since 2005, then?

"Pete's great," He smiles, even though he grits his teeth a little out of habit. She mirrors the expression. "He's doing his own record, he's back to the east coast every month and everything. Still... Pete."

That sparks an honest laugh out of her, and she leans forward, shoulders stooping forward as she reaches for her martini.

"I'll never forget the time he chopped down that tree in his parent's backyard," She giggles, shaking her head.

The simple, warm memory makes Patrick laugh, too, as he bites the drink straw between his teeth, and grimaces a little at the memory.

"Dale was totally unimpressed," He chuckles, recalling the night it had happened.

He'd been minding his own business, sitting in Pete's bedroom with a couple of notebooks strewn around him and Conor Oberst on the CD player (all these years later, Patrick thinks, there was no accounting for musical taste), when he'd heard the distinct sound of a chainsaw outside, and then Dale yelling.

The notepad had hit the carpet so fast Patrick had practically tripped over it trying to get to the back window.

Pete had been standing in the backyard, dressed in showshoes to combat the elements, and a pair of swim trunks. Patrick had watched in horror and curiosity as Pete cut down one of the mammoth evergreen trees in their backyard landscaping, and then run around the yard with the chainsaw still rumbling as his father came out to chase him down.

He hadn't been sent home early that night, but there had been a very specific, clause-including "no power tools" family contract that Pete had to sign and post on the fridge. Patrick had laughed to himself every time he'd gone for orange juice, or to bring the butter or condiments out for the dinner table.

"How'd you find out about that, anyway?" Patrick asks Katie, now, sucking noisily at the remnants at the bottom of his drink glass.

Katie giggles a little, and has to concentrate on swallowing before she says, "Pete was telling that story for months. I didn't believe it until I saw the stump myself at a house-party."

*

He's a little tipsy when he gets back to his hotel room, but cracks the mini-bar bottle of whisky regardless. The warm feeling in his stomach may just be the alcohol talking, but it's still preferable to the onset of homesickness that's coming his way.

Historically, it generally starts in the pit of his stomach first.

Patrick grabs his iPhone and his drink before settling into an armchair, folding his legs up Indian style and balancing his whisky on the arm rest.

There's a new message from Pete, dated ten minutes ago: _you worry me when yr on the road solo style_

 _Why's that?_ Patrick texts back, making a face. He grabs his drink, and juggles it while he texts back. _You're way more prone to inappropriate, unsupervised activity than I am._

A few moments of sipping at his drink, before the reply comes. _yr not wrong just miss u sall._

I know. Patrick thinks about his day, today: waking up alone, eating breakfast, climbing into the car, talking with Michael. _Hey, guess what though?_

Just a second, before, ?

 _I saw a seagull swallow a hot-dog whole today,_ Patrick texts, grinning over his drink. _It reminded me of you._

Patrick is totally cracking up at his own sense of humor when the phone rings instead of beeps, and Pete's big dumb face flashes across the caller screen.

"Hi," He laughs, re-organizing himself on the chair in a way that makes it possible for him to reach over, and pull the window curtains open wider. The Detroit cityscape unfolds beneath him as the sound of Pete's laughter unfolds in his ear.

Pete sounds a little surprised as he says, still laughing, "I miss you so fucking much."

"I know," Patrick replies, his laughter dying down but the grin spread wide across his face growing bigger. "I miss you a lot, too."


End file.
